


One Droplet (or How Sherlock Holmes Learned to Love the Beach)

by Irrevocably_Sherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Erotic Fantasies, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Sherlock & John on holiday, egregious desciptions of a hot John Watson, john is a sun god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 20:37:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20319142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked
Summary: What is truly driving Sherlock out of his mind is John himself. The man simply insists upon stripping his clothes off and going swimming and leisurely lying in the sun. And every day, John’s skin is getting more and more tan, causing the sun to glisten off his body just so, and Sherlock is going out of his mind with a desire so strong it has completely caught him off guard.





	One Droplet (or How Sherlock Holmes Learned to Love the Beach)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yorkiepug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yorkiepug/gifts).

> Hi! So this was a lost Johnlock ficlet that I found! and I thought, huh, y'all should see this. So I rather hope you enjoy. <3  
This is unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Thank you to [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin) and [Englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn) for convincing me to post <3
> 
> Come find me on twitter at [astudyinsnoggy](https://twitter.com/astudyinsnoggy)

He has no clue why he agreed to this inane holiday in the first place. He doesn’t need holidays. Holidays are for average idiots, to give themselves a so-called break from their dull prosaic lives. Sherlock Holmes was neither average, nor an idiot, and his life was far from dull. However, John insisted. John was tired, Sherlock was tired, and damn it, they were taking a holiday. And as usual since the army doctor limped into his life, Sherlock shut up and agreed with John’s assessment. 

True, the last case had been a doozy. A serial murderer that had led them a merry chase for nearly four weeks before he finally was captured. And in that four week period, Sherlock had barely eaten or slept, riveted and determined as he was on the puzzle in front of him, much to John’s dismay. After the case ended, he had climbed into his bed only to emerge a full 18 hours later, looking no better off. It was at that point John made the case for the holiday. Too tired and uninterested to care, Sherlock had let John do all the planning. Not to mention the packing. Which is how he found himself in his current situation, without a say in where they had ended up. John chose it based on what he liked.

And what John likes? Is slowly driving Sherlock insane. 

It’s not just the sun, which Sherlock hates, _it’s too hot_. It’s not just the sand, _dear god it sticks to everything_. Or the water, or the mass amounts of boisterous youths prowling around that are truly the most annoying to Sherlock. No all those he could be given to tolerate. What is truly driving Sherlock out of his mind is John himself. The man simply insists upon stripping his clothes off and going swimming and leisurely lying in the sun. And every day, John’s skin is getting more and more tan, causing the sun to glisten off his body just so, and Sherlock is going out of his mind with a desire so strong it has completely caught him off guard. Day after day he sits in the chair under the umbrella reading the apiologist text he brought, and tries to keep his mind on bees. Instead it wanders to taut stomachs, lean backs, and a lush arse that frankly should be illegal. He’s trying to keep his desires under control, keep John from learning of his baser thoughts, but it is becoming increasingly difficult with the man in question looking so unrepentantly edible. So far the only things keeping him from making a complete fool of himself is the fact that John is blissfully unobservant, and that beach towels hide a multitude of sins, not the least of which are inconvenient erections. 

Sherlock’s eyes drift away from the page that he has been attempting to read for the last hour, and towards the shoreline where John is currently emerging from the water, the sun glistening off his shoulders as he makes his way up the beach. Sherlock tries to look back down at the paragraph he was reading, but the water droplets still clinging to John’s skin are glittering and drawing his focus. He watches John move closer, the muscles in his thighs rippling as he makes his way through the thick sand, and Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. Days of swimming and sun have given John the appearance of a golden god, and even though Sherlock knows he is being ridiculous, all control has flown out the window. The only room left in his head is currently occupied by increasingly erotic fantasies. Fantasies of John fisting his hands in Sherlock's curls and fitting his mouth to his, rubbing his wet body against his own as he sucks marks into his neck. Sherlock sliding his hands under the waistband of those trunks to grab John’s arse and pull him close. Sherlock shakes his head firmly and lowers his book so it is covering his lap and takes a deep, shuddering breath to steady himself as John steps close to his chair to grab his towel.

Sherlock watches rapt as John dries his hair, his mouth watering as he watches one drop of water make its way from John’s shoulder, over his nipple, down that broad chest, and settle in his navel. He aches with the desire to drop to his knees in front of John, trace the trail of that drop with his tongue, lick it off his skin. He longs to learn John’s taste mixed with sun, sweat and sand. Sherlock bites down hard on his lower lip, but not before a sound, that was decidedly not a whimper, escapes from his mouth. 

John stops his movements, pulling the towel back from his face. “Sherlock?” he asks, the concern evident in his voice. He wraps the towel around his waist and steps closer. “Are you alright, you look flushed.”

“I’m - I’m fine.” Sherlock chokes out, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. He grips the book tighter in his lap, trying to block his sudden erection from view. 

“You sure? Maybe we should go in.”

Sherlock can only nod, waiting until John starts towards the room before following.

“I’m going to take a shower,” John says as they enter, “unless you want to go first?”

“No, no. Go ahead.”

Sherlock swallows hard as the sound of the shower starting kicks his fantasies into an even higher gear. Thoughts of John under the warm spray, sand and salt running off that tanned skin, down chiseled planes, muscular thighs. He is sure he has never been this aroused in his life. Something about the mix of sun and John is making Sherlock itch with desire, the pull getting stronger by the day. One part of his brain tells him he should cut this trip short before anything stupid happens on his part. While the other, baser, hidden part of his brain reminds him of that droplet and the trail down John’s body, and how easily Sherlock could mimic it, follow it with tongue and lips and teeth. The baser part is winning.

Sherlock sprawls on the couch and adjusts himself through his swim trunks, letting out a soft moan at the pressure against his aching cock. He palms himself more firmly, as images of warm, wet skin invade his mind. He wonders, if he were to press his lips to John’s, would he taste like the sea itself? Would Sherlock be able to pull the sunlight through his flesh, taste it on his tongue? He’d like to start with that one drop. That irritating invader, suck it out of John’s navel, press himself closer and devour him, bit by bit, drop by drop. 

He’s fully hard now, his hips moving of their own accord, seeking something to ease the pressure. The sound of the shower still running makes up his mind, and he eases his trunks down over his hips, allowing his cock to spring free. Eagerly he wraps his hand around himself, stroking firmly from base to tip, biting his lip to keep from moaning too loudly. He knows in this state he won’t last long, he can take care of his problem before John comes out and no one will be the wiser for it. 

He speeds his movements a bit, adding a twist at the end that has him gasping. His other hand is caressing his skin, running over his chest, his stomach, rolling his nipples between his fingers and pulling. In his mind he can imagine John above him, his cock filling Sherlock’s mouth. He wants to learn every facet of John’s taste, hear every sound he can coax out of his lips. He wonders if John would want it softer, or if he’d take control, grab his hair and use his willing mouth, let Sherlock swallow him down. The thought pushes him closer to the edge, the familiar tightening building in his belly. He throws his head back and lets out a loud breathy moan, his hand tugging faster and harder along his length. 

“Jo-” He shoves two fingers in his mouth, sucking hard to keep from calling out the name that is on the tip of his tongue. He moans around the digits, lifting his hips to fuck into the tight circle of his fist. He is so close, his orgasm pressing closer with each thrust. 

The sound of John choking out his name snaps him out of his fantasy. He had been so lost that he missed the sound of the water shutting off. He snaps open his eyes to see John standing beside the sofa, towel loosely draped across his hips. Sherlock freezes, mortified at being caught. He could try to talk his way out of it, John should understand, given his usual wanking habits in the shower, but something in John’s demeanor stops him. 

John is breathing hard, his chest flushed and heaving. Sherlock can see his pulse beating rapidly, and his eyes, his eyes are hot molten pools focused on Sherlock. As he watches, John’s eyes travel from his bare chest to his hand on his cock, and his tongue darts out to touch his bottom lip. Sherlock bites back a small whimper. Sherlock’s eyes rake over John’s body, and he lets out a small gasp at the obvious tenting of the towel. John’s eyes flick back to his own. 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice has gone deep and gravely, and he leans toward where Sherlock is still lying prone on the couch. He is close enough that Sherlock can see the moisture clinging to his skin, and his arousal flares to life again, his need making it difficult to breathe. “God, Sherlock, can I -”

It’s all John can get out before Sherlock grabs him and pulls him down, fitting their mouths together, and wasting no time in pressing his tongue to the seam of John’s lips. John gives back just as good, his initial ‘oomph’ of surprise fading into a drawn out moan as he slides his tongue against Sherlock’s. The kiss is hot and desperate, years of pent-up desire let loose in one instant. Between the two of them, John’s towel is shed, and four hands pull off Sherlock’s swim trunks, tossing them somewhere towards the balcony. Sherlock presses a hard kiss to John’s mouth, and then flips them on the sofa, draping his body over John’s. 

“Christ, Sherlock, you feel incredible,” John moans, rocking his pelvis upwards to align their erections. 

Sherlock groans, grinding down on John. Remembering that damnable drop, he kisses down John’s jaw, swirling his tongue over his collarbone to his shoulder, stopping to catalogue the unique texture of his scar. Then he moves lower, tracing that watery path, over John’s chest, sucking hard on his nipple, continuing down ever lower until he reaches John’s navel and cautiously swirling his tongue inside. 

John moans, his hands threading through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock smirks and moves lower, pressing his lips to first one hipbone then the other, before moving lower still. John’s cock is gorgeous, thicker and longer than he had dreamed, and gloriously wet. Sherlock aches with the need to learn John’s taste. Cautiously he swirls his tongue around the head, pressing slightly into the slit. Sherlock moans, and wraps his mouth fully around John’s cock, pressing his tongue to the underside and taking him in as far as he can. 

“Fuck, Sherlock, that mouth.” John’s hand leaves his hair, grabbing hard onto the cushion. That won’t do. 

Sherlock pulls off, and picks up John’s hand, placing it back on his head, “I don’t mind, John, you can pull it, I want you to.” He sinks back down onto John’s length, pressing his tongue into the frenulum and wrapping his hand around the base. 

“God,” John groans, his hands tightening in Sherlock’s hair, his hips moving in tiny thrusts, seeking more. Sherlock obliges, bobbing his head faster and sucking harder, his hand stroking the parts of John his mouth can’t reach. The obscene sounds of wet sliding flesh fill the room intermingled with muffled moans as Sherlock coaxes John closer and closer to the edge. He reaches his free hand down his body, stroking his own hard length in time with his mouth, desperate for his own release, his earlier aborted orgasm barrelling down on him full force. 

“Fuck, Sherlock, I’m going to - Fuck!” John shouts his warning, shooting his release deep down Sherlock's throat. Sherlock stills his hand on his own cock as he continues to lick at John’s softening erection. He pulls off when he senses John is too sensitive, sitting back on his heels. John sits up and covers his mouth with his own, biting at his lower lip, hands still fisted in Sherlock’s hair. 

“You amazing creature. Tell me, what about you, hmm?” John noses his way down Sherlock’s neck, sucking hard at the junction of his shoulder, and Sherlock lets out a whine, his fingers gripping hard against John’s biceps, back, anything in reach. 

“Touch me, please, John, just- ohhh.” Sherlock arches his back, his hips rolling instinctively to press himself further into John’s hand where it is curled around his cock. John wastes no time, stroking him hard and fast, obviously understanding how close he is, and Sherlock is grateful. John reaches down with his other hand, kneading the rounded globe of Sherlock’s arse and sucks hard at a pulse point, and that pulls him over the edge, his vision going white around the edges as he shoots his release between their bodies. He’s dimly aware that he is chanting John’s name over and over, but couldn’t possibly care less. Judging by the soft kisses and chuckles being pressed into his skin, John doesn’t seem to mind either. 

When he can think again, he opens his eyes to find John watching him, small smile playing on his lips. Sherlock wants to taste it, so he does exactly that, the kiss languid and less desperate than before. He pulls away and John repositions them, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s middle and lying back against the cushions. Sherlock tucks his head under John’s chin, content for the moment to just soak up his warmth. Neither speak for several minutes, each just enjoying the feel of naked skin and soft brushes of fingertips. 

Sherlock breaks first. “John. Thank you.”

“Hmm? Why are you thanking me, Sherlock?”

“Because you were right, I needed a holiday. With you. At the beach. It was - good.”

John chuckles, his chest shaking Sherlock’s cheek. “You’re welcome. Anytime.”

“Good. I expect every year about this time will be amenable? That’s what people do, right? Have anniversaries?”

John’s eyes are soft and slightly wet when they meet his own. He swallows, then wraps his arms tighter around Sherlock. “Sure, love. That sounds perfect.”

Sherlock nestles back down onto John’s chest. He knows eventually they will have to move, to clean up, but for now, he is content to be where he is. His last conscious thought before he drifts off is just how much he loves the beach. 


End file.
